very easily, and he could quickly disappear in either place. His Spanish had been pretty good when he arrived, and with work, it was much better now, so he was able to pass as an American who had made a career in the country and was now retired.
He parked the scooter and strolled through the lobby, making a show of looking at the expensive merchandise in the glass cases, the goods of nearby shops. The cases went through the wall and could be seen from the bar, too, and that allowed him to view the customers inside. He spotted the man almost immediately.
He was late thirties/early forties, medium height, pale skin, and thin blond hair, and he wore reading glasses on a string around his neck. He had apparently just arrived, because he was showing the bartender a photograph, and the bartender, after a cursory glance, was shaking his head.
Teddy walked into the bar and took a seat two stools down from the visitor, who was almost certainly American. “Fundador and soda,” he said to the bartender.
“Ice, seсor?”
“Yes, please.”
“You’re an American?” the man asked.
Teddy turned and regarded him for a moment. “How’d you guess?” he asked.
The man laughed. “Me, too. Can I buy you a drink?”
“You can buy me this one,” Teddy replied, holding up his glass.
The man moved over a place; now there was only one stool between them. “Put that on my tab,” he said to the bartender, who nodded gravely and did something with a pencil. “I’m Ned Partain,” the man said, sticking out his hand.
“Larry Toms,” Teddy said, shaking it.
“What brings you to Panama?”
“The canal, what else?”
“You work on the canal?”
“I did for twenty-seven years, until I retired two years ago.”
“What did you do there?”
“Nothing glamorous like an engineer,” Teddy replied. “I was an accountant.” That information would stop any further conversation about his job.
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘Oh,’ ” Teddy said. “How about you? What brings you down here?”
“An assignment. I’m a journalist.”
“Now, that’s a lot more interesting than accounting. Who do you write for?”
“A little rag called the National Inquisitor, maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“When I’m in the States I see it at supermarket checkout counters, I think.”
“That’s the one. It’s not exactly prestigious journalism, but it pays one hell of a lot better than the The Washington Post or others of that ilk.”
“Good for you.”
“You married?”
“My wife died last year in an automobile accident,” Teddy replied. “You?”
“Divorced for two years. She’s bleeding me white, of course.” Ned dug into a pocket and came out with a well-worn photograph. “Say, have you seen this guy in your travels around town?”
Teddy took the photo and found his younger self staring back at him. Where the hell did this come from? He couldn’t place it.
“He’d be older now, mid-fifties to sixty.”
Teddy continued to stare at the photo. Chesapeake Bay, Fourth of July, eight or nine years ago: rented boat, girl with a camera, girl he’d picked up in a D.C. bar and seen for a few months before they’d tired of each other. “Looks familiar,” he said. “Who is he?”
“Really?” Ned said, showing some excitement. “Where’d you see him?”
“I’m trying to remember,” Teddy said. “He’s older now?”
“Yeah, he was in his late forties when that was taken.”
“Who is he?”
“Just a guy I’m looking for.”
“Well, he must be a pretty important guy, if you’ve come all the way down here from the States looking for him.”
Ned moved over another stool and leaned close to Teddy. “He’s important to my story,” he said.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Teddy replied, signaling the bartender.
“If you could help me find this guy, there would be a reward,” Ned said. “My paper is very generous.”
Teddy looked at the photo again. “You know, I think I’ve seen this guy right here in Panama City.”
“Larry, my friend,” Ned said, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, as Claude Rains said to Bogey.”
“You know,” Teddy said, “it might be at that.”
Teddy continued to drink with the man, but he would not answer the questions about the photo. Teddy badly wanted to know what Ned Partain knew.
It was dark outside now, and Teddy looked at his watch. “Want to get some dinner?” he asked.
“Sure,” Partain said, “but the Inquisitor is buying.”
“I don’t mind that at all,” Teddy replied. “Tell you what, there’s a nice place in Balboa, sort of a suburb, called El Parador. I’ve got a quick stop to make, so why don’t we meet there in half an hour? There’s a cab stand outside the hotel.”
“Good deal,” Ned said. He was getting a little drunk.
31
El Parador was perfect, Teddy thought; it would be crowded before they finished dinner, and they would blend in. And it was near the canal. They dined on the terrace, which sported a view of both the Gulf of Panama, where ships at anchor waited their turn for the canal, and the canal itself.
“Wow!” Ned said, as a huge tanker slid slowly past them.
“Pretty impressive, huh? Shall I order for us?”
“Sure, go ahead, and a good bottle of wine, too. The Inquisitor can afford it.”
Teddy ordered the house specialty and a fine bottle of Chilean cabernet.
“Okay,” Ned said, sipping his wine, “now, tell me where you’ve seen this guy.”
“First I want to know who he is and what you want with him,” Teddy said. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. Did he skip out on his wife or something?”
“Nah, nothing like that.” Ned looked around to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard. “Did you ever hear of a guy named Teddy Fay?”
“Yeah, I have, but I don’t remember where.”
“Ex-CIA guy, an assassin, killed some people.”
“Wait a minute, now I know who you’re talking about,” Teddy said. “Didn’t I read that he went down with a boat somewhere in the Caribbean earlier this year?”
“That’s the story everybody bought, but I don’t think so.”
“And there weren’t any photographs of him, either,” Teddy said. “So where’d you get yours, and how do you know it’s him?”
“A girl he used to go out with a while back,” Ned said. “She took the picture when they were out sailing, then forgot about it. A couple of weeks ago she was down here on a cruise and saw him, but he didn’t see her. Since she was on a ship she didn’t know who to tell, so she waited until she got home, found the old film, and had it developed. She was going to call the FBI, but she’s a regular reader, and she figured she might as well make some money out of it, so she called the paper and asked for Editorial and I answered the phone. And here I am.”
“So you’re down here to get the guy busted?”
